Just because you're spending four days in a field doesn't mean you can't be fashion-forward. Your motto? Live fest, die Chung. Your Isabel Marant wedge trainers may be impractical for trekking to the Park Stage but it's not as if you're planning on leaving hospitality any time soon – it's the only place with a big enough mirror for all your makeup (and perk-up) requirements. It's glamping all the way for you – even though you could have easily fitted a three-person tent inside that giant Mulberry handbag.
While festival neophytes fish disconsolately for their flip-flops in the mud, you stride smugly past in your Fellmasters and gaiters. Your waterproof gilet folds into a bumbag which holds your high-SPF sunblock. Your tent goes up in five minutes flat. People might think you're a bit square, but they'll all be begging to borrow your mallet, not to mention your self-laminated stage times clash-finder. And they don't realise your Camelbak is filled with a fairly decent Chilean carmenere...
You reckoned it would be the perfect festival garment to complement your zany personality. But then an ear fell off before you even reached the site and lord knows where your wallet and phone have gone. You can't trust the zipper on an outfit that costs buttons: your Pikachu is suddenly a bit more peekaboo, and some of the nearby livestock are looking at you with what seems like carnal interest. YOLO?
Your mantra is: 'ave it large, 'ave it loud, 'ave it face down on the floor of the dubstep tent by midnight. It doesn't take you long to go native, whipping off your Superdry polo and daubing your torso with fluoro warpaint like the Last Of The Mohicans for mentalists. You'll be down the front for Flux Pavilion, topping up with Relentless until it's time for Kasabian. But is that poppers or Clearasil we can smell?
The only thing cooler than seeing your fave band live is liveblogging your fave band. iPad aloft, you're a self-contained guerilla broadcasting hub, drowning stodgy "old" media in a flurry of tweets, Instagrams and blurry blipverts of performance footage. Your Vine of Everything Everything is sure to go viral (so long as your Everything Everywhere signal holds up).
A bit like Ted Nugent, you go looking for intensities in tent cities. Scrumpy stall duly located, you head straight for your usual spot in front of the speakers. You welcome the mud – your all-black outfit is dirty anyway and it keeps the poseurs out of your moshpit. Who cares if the lineups are more Skrillex than Slayer these days? You'll headbang to anything, so long as it staves off the prospect of going back to the IT helpdesk on Monday.
You would have cycled to the festival on your penny farthing if not for the poor road conditions (those plus fours don't come cheap, and mud can be devilishly corrosive). Nevertheless, the game remains afoot! Your vintage fayre-acquired pocket watch can only make you seem more dashing as you oversee your mixologist pop-up stall, taking crafty slugs from a hip flask emblazoned with your personal coat of arms. As night falls, it's time to sweep some gals off their feet at the lindy-hop comp in the electro-swing tent.
People with closed minds claim festivals are all about the music, but for you it's really a chance to get back to nature. You're more into charging your chakras than raving to Rudimental, and prefer to pirouette breezily through the fields dedicated to spiritual pursuits and inner exploration, with flowers in your hair and happy mischief in your heart. Doing so barefoot brings you even closer to the loamy heartbeat of Gaia – although admittedly that last squelch felt more like a discarded falafel.
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